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THE LEGEND OF SAM'S POINT 



BY 



BLANCHE DENS MO RE CURTIS 



ILLUSTRATED BY 

CHARLES C. CURRAN 



CRAGSMOOR, NEPF TORK 

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THE LEGEND OF SAM'S POINT, 




P the mountain-side the old 
trail winds ; 
On the swampy moor a path 
it finds ; 
It clambers over the lichened rock ; 
It circles around the stumps 
which block 
Its way through the tangled wood; it sprawls 
Through the stony pasture land ; it crawls 
Into many a ferny nook 

As it seeks the bank of the shaded brook 
Which it crosses on stepping stones. 

Would you follow this trail — take heed ! 

While its wild allure is sweet 
It has pitfalls for the feet 

Of the careless wanderer. 
In his reckless, headlong speed 

The whips of the low-branched trees, 
Urged on by the zealous breeze. 

Shall give him many a sting. 
He must ever mind his steps 

If he use the old dead log 



As a bridge to the bubbling spring 
Or its treacherous moss may give 

And he'll sink to the inky depths 
Of an unexpected bog. 

When was this old trail made? Who knows? 

When the iirst of the redman's foes 
Came into the land and called it new 

And found it fair, 
It was there. 

He followed its curvings far 
From some vantage point to view 

The lay of a goodly land. 
And there he made his stand. 

He said to himself: "This is mine. 

I will take these valleys fine 
And rich with the powdered mould 

Brought down by the mountain stream ; 
They will yield me a thousand fold. 

I will take the mountain-side 
Where the furry beasts now bide 

And the trees that grow thereon. 
No longer will I roam ; 

I will build myself a home ; 
I will dig me a garden plot 

And fence me a farm about." 
So he worked with a hand untired 

And did as his heart desired — 
He and hundreds of men like him. 



For the savage Indian tribes 

Whose feet had worn the trail 
Over hill and brook and dale 

He had only mocking gibes. 
Though they were born on the soil 

And knew it as their own, 
He made it Fortune's spoil. 

But bitter must he atone ; 
For the savages wrought what harm 

They could to the settler's farm, 
To his flourishing garden plot, 

To the cows in his pasture lot, 
To his calves and pigs in pens, 

To his good wife's cocks and hens, — 
And to those of his neighbor as well. 

Before he awoke from his dream 

Of a happy life under favoring skies, 
Of an unburdened life 

Far away from strife, 
A terrible feud was on 

And the peace he sought for gone. 
His house was burned and his garden trod. 

His growing corn returned to the sod 
And his cattle driven away ; 

His children cried and trembled with fright 
And his wife could not sleep in the restless night 

For dread of the coming day; 
And he must begin again — 

He and the neighboring men. 



No one wrote this history then. 

We shall never know it well. 
But Tradition began its tales to tell; 

They have echoed through the years ; 
And my pen has listening ears 

And writes one story down. 

It writes of a mighty man 

With a queer old Dutch surname 
Who as Sam is known to fame. 

He was fleet of foot and strong of limb; 
His piercing eye 

As it swept the sky / 

Could name each bird on its distant wing ; 

The coming breezes brought to him 
The news of the forest happening ; 

With all of the woodman's needed skill 
His clumsy axe was a tool at will; 

And with the Indian's inborn craft 
He tracked his prey and sent his shaft; 

He had a heavy hand; 
And his word had weight in the land. 

He had also a kindly heart 

And he played a friendly part 
For each settler far and near 

When the trees were felled a space to clear 
Where must stand the new log house. 

Or when famine came ere the crops were grown 
He gave what he could from out his own. 



But he reckoned the Indians not as men — 
They were vicious beasts of prey — 

And he thought that the Lord applauded him 
For each redskin less in the white man's way 

And his neighbors thought with him. 

So whenever the corn 

Was trampled and torn, 
They armed themselves in a righteous wrath 

And followed the foe on a vengeful path 
And shot him merciless down. 

But the foemen too were valorous men 
As ever they rallied and rallied again; 

It was blood for blood 
And the horrible feud went on. 

One glorious day 

When the fields were gay 
With aster and goldenrod — 

When bright and bold, 
Red, brown and gold, 

Shone the trees in Shawangunk's wood — 
On such a day. 

The stories say. 
This venturous man 

Went up on the mountain-side 
To visit his traps which were scattered wide 

Wherever the mink and muskrat hide; 
For the hills were his autumn harvest ground 

And his crops the furry beasts he found. 



As he thought the enemy far away 

He deemed it safe unarmed to stray, 
So he set his gun by his rude hearthstone 

And, save for his dog, went forth alone. 

As he set his traps he thought of the skins 

That were piled on an upper shelf; 
Of the pleasant way that he must take 

When he went with a pack 
On his sturdy back 

To a busy town on a river's bank 
Where he'd change his pelts for pelf 

He thrilled with the thought of the bargain keen 
He must make for his wife's new dress 

With linings and buttons and thread complete; 
And the Sunday shoes for his children's feet; 

And powder and lead and things like these; 
Then he felt his dog at his knees. 

He curses the gun he has left behind 

And he curses the thoughts that had dulled his mind 
To the stealthy hurrying tread 

Of the warriors on his track. 
He stops not to send a quick glance back 

But slips through the whirls of impeding ferns 
And climbs the bank where the wild stream turns 

And seeks for the notches that blaze the trail 
Where he hopes to elude his foes. 

His flying feet crush the torpid snail 
And break the silence there. 



The little beasts bound 

Away from the sound; 
But the startled deer 

Have nought to fear; 
And the great black bear 

Need not turn to stare 
For he's past ere they know him near. 

He cannot rest 

When he reaches the crest 
Of Shawangunk's toilsome slope; 

He may not think 
Of a welcome drink 

In passing Maratanza's brink; 
For his foemen reach 

Its narrow beach 
Almost as soon as he; 

So he catches his breath 
And races with Death 

To a goal he cannot see. 

There's a great plain lying below his path — 
A plain covered over with time-old trees 

Whose velvety tops sway soft in the breeze; 
But he heeds them not as he onward springs 

Over roots and stones and hindering things. 

He straightens himself at last on the brink 

Where the great rock wall drops sheer. 
He raises his hands to his aching eyes 



And sees that the sun is setting clear 
As it sinks to the plain behind Bear Hill; 

And he longs for the safe and cool retreat 
Where Bruin in winter sleeps. 

Has it come — the moment of his defeat? 
He knows that this is the end of the race 

As vainly he seeks for a hiding place; 
For they Ve covered the path down the dangerous steeps 

And of one through the caves he has lost the trace. 
There is nothing to see but the swaying tops 

Of the heaven-aspiring trees, — 
The velvety masses of evergreen trees — 

Staring up in his frightened face 
As they offer their arms for a safe embrace. 

An instant he gazed at the sickening deep. 
Then nerved himself for the perilous leap — 

And the yell of the savage who saw him there 
Was echoing still when the rock was bare 

In the face of the setting sun. 

The Indians crept to the bare rock*s edge 

And looked for a dying foe; 
There was nothing to see but the banners green 

Of the militant hemlock trees 
Standing guard in the depths below, — 

The evergreen mass of wondering trees 
Whose murmuring twigs swept back in the breeze 

But did not tell 

What there befell. 



CONCLUSION. 



The story ends in a comforting way : 

The baffled savages could not stay 
To tear the scalp from their victim's head; 

They must swiftly fly for their lives instead ; 
They had felt the beat 

Of hurrying feet 
As they lay outstretched in the sun's last glow 

And stared at the swaying trees below ; 
They knew that the neighbors had armed in wrath 

And were up and out on a murderous path ; 
So they cautiously slipped through cave and glen 

And away down the trail to their tribes again. 

As for the hero, the neighbors found 

Him all unharmed on the cushioned ground; 
The outspread arms of the tough hemlocks 

Had thwarted his threatened fate; 
For, bending beneath his falling weight, 

They had passed him down from limb to limb 
Till he rocked in a cradle made for him 

By the interlacing trees. 
The whispering twigs laughed low in the breeze 

As they bade him live on for deeds like these. 

Would you proof of the truth 

Of this well known tale 
You have only to find the same old trail 



And follow it on 
Till it leads to the edge 

Of the great rock ledge 
Which to-day bears the hunter's name. 

As you shield your eyes from the blinding sun 
You can see for yourself where the deed was done. 



Note. — Samuel Gonsalus (familiarly known as Sam Consawley) 
was a famous hunter and scout. The episode related in the 
** Legend" occurred in the autumn of 1758. 




3477-17d 
Lot 53 



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